Monthly Archives: May 2014

Where there are no mountains, a balcony will do. See you at eight. J.
Strange message, but the ticket for the play called “Transfiguration” was free,
and I hadn’t seen Jack and his three lusty friends since the day he pretended

to spill his cup, and our luck overflowed. The sale of saints had been slow,
so I closed up early. Everyone wants horned gods these days and long-limbed
goddesses of sea foam. I send them to the airbrush artist down the street.

On the stage was a fountain with a beam of light aimed at the center
beside the wall of a medieval church with plumes of mist swirling from
cracks in the stone. The theatre was filling with no sign of Jack.

In the box seat of four, there was only me with a bottle of water, sitting
under a sign I couldn’t read, that must have been important, since people
below kept looking up and pointing. Precisely at eight, where there’d only

been space on the stage, a woman appeared in a loose khaki vest
like a female Che, hands in her pockets, relaxed. Before we begin this
phenomenal play, she announced, I would like to present the one

who made this production and all that surrounds us not only possible
but infinitely probable. The spotlight then swept from the stage to the box
seat across the auditorium, crowded with so many people I wondered how all

of them didn’t collapse into the orchestra pit. Letters carved above their box
read “Tragedy”. In the ominous silence, a few people coughed. Then the light
moved on, across the lower balcony toward me. The beam was so bright

that I couldn’t make out what was happening. A rumble began that sounded
like thunder from under my feet. It was only applause, but the sound had a
strange sort of surging and roll coming at me in folds. I thought of the icons

I painted with illustrious names of faces that change, and the customers
who said they’d never felt better than when they displayed what I sold,
but before I could place where I’d known this before, the roar settled down,

and the spotlight returned to the stage where the play had begun. A small
group at the fountain had gathered to speak of a quest to expose what they
called the Pretender. Do we know he’s a he? asked the woman in khaki, while

spinning a blade. When we find him, then what? said the man who looked
kind of like Jack. The one in the middle who said, she is he, he is she,
I couldn’t make out. Were there four at that fountain or three? I squinted

to see. While lifting the bottle of water, I noticed my palms had grown hot
and the plastic was warping. The liquid inside was beginning to boil. Shocked
and surprised, I tossed the container, which flew in an arc across the theatre

to the box seat named Tragedy. In the very next instant, a jet stream of water
shot out from the crowd. The plaster collapsed. The wood and the metal that
held them in place contorted. I watched in horror while the box seat dissolved,

and the people fell out in slow motion as if they were in outer space or an
ocean. While they floated and gathered their bearings, the rest of the seats
in the theatre rolled into cylinders, squirming and surging like red velvet

serpents in search of—I don’t know, a meal or exit—the shapes rearranged
and turned toward me. I jumped up with what remained of my sanity, yelling,
“Jack, what the hell kind of play…?” Jack, Jack, Jack…the name kept repeating,

a nickname for John and a nickname for James, the icons I’d painted so often
I knew them by heart…even more. They were men that I knew, had come to
adore—hardly saints—with a leader who taught us pretending is what

we have all come to do. Just do it with grace and with ease. So for aeons,
we practiced pretending until, as with too much of any good thing, it outgrew,
overtook us. We chose the wrong box, went crazy and crowded. Conspiracy,

a.k.a. unity, turned into something we tried to deny—would have gone on
denying, until that day we three met again at the fountain of the court
of St. James with our leader, who taught us on a mountain long

ago to breathe as one, conspire. Only this time, he said, you won’t tire.
And you’ll see that the play goes on and on. The cast of “Transfiguration”
took twelve curtain calls. I can’t explain the special effects, and there’s

no point phoning Jack. He’s locked in his study writing poetry. The master of
blades, she’s learning some new martial art. Me? Like my transfigured friends
I do what I want. As for the sign above my box seat? Clue: It’s a C word.

and organic but like most things that are non-GMO,
there is a price. His lovers would try calling him and find
his number changed or learn that he was married, whoa!

And then there came this heat wave, dry and hot behind
the rainy spring, and we none of us had seen or heard
a word from knave of hearts. Rumours flew—he’s blind,

been kidnapped, drawn and quartered, trampled by a herd
of jealous buffalo. I would have let it go, except the knaves
of diamond, club, and spade, his buds, begged of me a word.

You have to come and see him! He’s been flattened, raves
both night and day in ways we cannot fathom. Is it worms?
I asked, knowing of his tendency toward rare. No, he behaves…

The knave of spades could not say more. They took their turns
explaining in a chopper to the island paradise our ailing friend
called home, the morning sun so scorching hot it burns

to even think of that strange day. We found him with a pen
and massive sheets of parchment at a desk lit only by a lamp
of kerosene, all windows sealed. You’re here again?

He scowled at his pals and then saw me. A sudden cramp
appeared to hit him. Perhaps I haven’t mentioned this, but he
and I a history shared that ended in the cold and damp.

I thought that he would pitch a fit, or worse, on seeing me.
Instead, his face lit up. He cried, you have to hear this romance
I’ve been—no, not that, rondeau—mon Dieu, the symmetry!

She is my lyric, muse, my true and second chance.
He riffled through some pages. The only one I’ve ever
met of thousands whose eyes and body dance

whene’er she speaks of lovers past. I’ve never
known a woman free of pain. To bring her spirit into form
and word is why I’m born. I am her loyal knave forever!

His friends and I (they’re all named Jack) informed
appropriate authorities the knave of hearts would not
be trolling markets of despair again. The resulting storm

of barometric chaos caused some city clubs to rot
because of poor foundations, but in time the atmosphere
broke free. The pain that once obliged us, we forgot.

And while I’d love to end this sunny story here,
there’s one more chapter that will make things clear.

~~~

For those of you with discerning poetic eyes, you may have noticed that this is not free verse, like the first two chapters of “Conspiratio”. In keeping with the character and plot, I opted for terza rima, developed to stunning mastery by Dante in The Divine Comedy. I also ended with the traditional couplet, which, allowed me to say, “to be continued”, without having to say it.

Attraction is the law that undisturbed
will bring the best and more of love and food
sublime. My attendants with perfect haste
deliver and upon command, expel.

The steps that manifest have eased and curved
to bring you forms of high degree. What’s viewed
above, below must sanctify, both chaste
and passionate. Arousal serves you well…

And now, coordinates in place, we rise
to catch the diamonds in each other’s eyes.

~~~

I’ve employed the sonnet with a rhyme scheme of abcdabcdabcdee to give these pieces a kind of loose weave. While most lines lean toward iambic pentameter, I deliberately welcomed 9 or 11 syllables to convey the laid-back quality of a most misunderstood Queen.

You will never read this
in a way that could make
any difference, but I’m telling
you anyway. There’s a song
that I played on continuous
repeat when I needed to
think the best of you
for a long time, and
it took a lot of
pretending

and then
the task was done
and I didn’t have to play
the song anymore, only
something in the time-
warped weave of the
Universe refuses
to give up

and so
I hear the song
in the damnedest
places, where there
shouldn’t even be
music, and I
smile as I quietly
move Eden outside.

From the flecks of future-past
surrounding me, I choose
the brightest and the smallest
with a set of calipers so fine
and movements so precise
you’d think to look at me
that I am doing nothing.

From these flecks of choice
and possibility, arrangements
sort themselves in order
more or less of cells
to dust, to nugget, leaf
and palaces, creating worlds
and galaxies and still beyond,
continuous.

You’ve found my world,
I see, else you’d have
carried on diminishing
and wearying, forging
leaden boots instead of
gold to plod through life,
confusing weight and density
with what shines pure, and
selling specks of hope mashed
in with heaviness, to every
questing soul who chances
to sit by you for a spell.

Be calm. Your saving
grace and I have talked
for aeons, and we’re very
nearly through the binding
and completion of this book—
a fleck or two of space,
and not another
word will do.

Reader Alert: The following verse is meant to be read in the spirit of play. I have tremendous respect for people who work in the psychiatric profession, and empathy for those who struggle—and thrive—with mental illness.

~~~

I’ve taken a course
to understand
why the course
of my life has not
gone hand in hand
with the orders I gave it—
or somebody did.

I can’t quite remember.

I ordered a book
that took men and women
much smarter than me
sixty-two years
to determine what’s
what in the brain
we call normal

which was something
I thought I never
could be

and now,
having read
and not understood

—I am using the book
as a stool for the foot
that I used to put into
my mouth—

I can say
with undisguised glee
there are only three things
that are wrong with me!

#1

I have the ability to not sit still
in the presence of boredom disorder.

If you determine
I should take a pill,
I will reach for a pillow
resisting temptation
for I can delay
like nobody’s business
and save for a day
the gratification to whomp
it across your head.

And take a nap instead.

#2

In the face of anxiety
I do not panic
though I probably should
if not panic
do something

I’m too busy
thinking of all
of my options
in times of anxiety
there are only
three

fight
flight or
freeze

but when caught
in tight corners, the Fs
on my tongue get tied up
and I twist them to

fleas
fright
and frig it!

Then do what I please.

#3

On days like today
when I’m too sad
to play in the rain—
YET AGAIN!

and reading
the forecast with
pictures of suns they
delete (oops, wrong
again!) makes me feel
even more of a drip

I go on a trip
in my mind where
there’s no border guards
and the Silk Road
is booming

and buy myself
mansions with poets
in residence

ask Paco de Lucia
to tune my guitar—
he always say yes!

And I learn to play chess.

that is all
that is all
that is wrong
with me

~~~

DSM stands for Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. It was first published in 1952 and is now in its fifth edition, known as DSM-5.

Sometimes, glosas arrive in clusters. I don’t know why, but here is my second in as many days. What’s different about “Four Vignettes” is that they cross the border into my other self, a corporation communication consultant and author of The Corporate Storyteller: A Writing Manual & Style Guide for the Brave New Business Leader. I like the convergence and hope you enjoy this piece.

~~~

He lives not long who battles with immortals,
nor do his children prattle about his knees
when he has come back
from battle and the great fray.

Homer

~~~

They found the warrior of market share
and innovation slumped today, outside
a club called Chronos, batteries of
his heart and phone both sapped.
Stock prices dipped, then soared
when rivals no less mortal
swallowed and digested what he built.
Satellites report sightings of Leviathan,
swimming toward Southeast Asian portals.He lives not long who battles with immortals.

The woman who was born to draw
read Plath while keeping dinners warm
for eighteen years until the father
of her sons confessed—“It’s not about
your breasts”—he wore the curdled
bouillabaisse the night he left. A squeeze
of assets paid for canvases and lessons,
but a palsy stilled her hand. There’s
nothing either spouse can do to please,nor do his children prattle about his knees.A son of academics fights his way
through jungles of Cambodia
to overcome the asthma caused
by politics of tenure. He is learning
from the spongy earth to breathe again
and dreams of elephants who track
like canines for remains of kidnapped
millionaires. Black-eyed village children
dance, seeing him with lungs intact,when he has come back.

Five sisters under thirty take
the corporate world by storm with
baked goods shipped to zones
of mass disaster. Micro-loans paid
back, their faces grace the halls of Forbes
and LSE*. They speak of work as play
and profits as a joyful, yeasty, rising
harmony. We’re made of sturdy clay
that softens when we cherish time awayfrom battle and the great fray.